


The Extent of The Three ‘A’s on Commander Spock By Captain James T. Kirk

by tooboldly



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Christmas Time, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Massage, Mutual Pining, My First Work in This Fandom, Sickfic, Unresolved Sexual Tension, trekmas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-03 01:36:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2833346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tooboldly/pseuds/tooboldly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the month of Christmas celebration, Captain James T. Kirk discovers how annoying, amazing and adorable his First Officer, Commander Spock, can be.</p><p>Update: Russian translation now available, with thanks to Lera! Visit ficbook.net/readfic/3452228 to read x</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kirk Finds Spock Exasperating and Annoying

**Author's Note:**

> *Disclaimer: I don't own these characters of Star Trek. This body of work has no interest in gaining commercial profits - that is to say, I don't get paid for this. 
> 
> As this work remains un-beta'd, all mistakes are mine. Please be kind to my first fic!!
> 
> enjoy :-)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scotty and Chekov are the babes. Uhura is determined to stay the hell out of the way while Jim and Spock get on each other's nerves. Sulu silently watches in faint amusement. Bones saves the day.

**4 weeks before Christmas**

The Christmas spirit is strong on the Enterprise, evidently so by the alternating green and red of the lights on the consoles of the bridge, a simple modification of the circuit systems of the ship on Scotty and Chekov’s part.

Jim walks up to one of the replicators, punching a few codes for his cup of coffee – black, without sugar. He would’ve loved a good cup of espresso with 3 sugar cubes, with the Christmas indulgences and all. But Jim swears the last thing he wants during Christmas is for Bones to figure out the reason behind a sudden spike in his blood sugar level during one of his monthly health inspection. The good doctor would attempt to smother him with the latest statistic showing an increase in risks of various diseases for consuming excessive, replicated glucose, which – _yeah, no._

With his cup of coffee in hand, Jim turns and walks to the turbolift, ready for another day of uneventful cruising through a chunk of uncharted deep space. One would expect a place this untouched to be full of surprises and mystery; but nebulas and meteoroids are just fancier names for the little baby stars and baby rocks floating about in the pure darkness of space. And Jim, for one, does not like babies.

Jim has arrived early for his shift. He smiles and nods at the casual salutes delivered by a team of ensigns who are shuffling out of the bridge into the turbolift at the end of their shift. Leaning against the consoles on the chief science officer’s station - where Spock would be in a few minutes – Jim took a sip from his cup, wincing at the lukewarm bitterness of the coffee.

Rotations of shifts takes less than one full minute, anything more will be negligence of duties on all officers attending to their individual stations. But before long, Jim finds himself greeted by the familiar, smiling faces of his own crew.

“Ah, Keptin Kurk!” A floof of golden curls emerges from the corner of his eyes, and Jim is greeted by Chekhov, who is waving enthusiastically at the lights installation on the bridge. “Mr Scott and I haff finished the installation overnight. Now the Enterprise will be ready for the early Kwissmas celebration!”

“Hey Chekov,” Jim ruffles the curls of Chekov, causing him to yelp, covering his head with his hands in protests. “My ship looks like an awesome party house, thanks kid.”

_Hey. Christmas party house. Right._

The brilliant mind of Jim Kirk begins spinning. As does his feet.

Uhura very nearly bumps into Jim as she catches the fast disappearing shadow of her Captain; as Jim sprints across the hallway, he leaves Uhura with a loud shout of “be right back” over his shoulder. Uhura huffs, wondering what issue must be dealt with such urgency by the Captain. With a swirl of her ponytail, she enters the bridge with majority of its officers already in their stations.

Almost in the next moment, Spock enters after Uhura. Immediately, a frown is visible on his face.

The captain’s chair is empty.

Spock walks over to his science station, discovers half a cup of coffee at the left of his console, and his left eyebrow lifts slightly upwards. Pulling out his PADD, Spock says, “Computer, locate Captain James T. Kirk.”

A beep came through the built-in speakers of the PADD, and in a few moments, a mechanical voice announces, “Captain James T. Kirk is currently on the bridge.”

At that, both of Spock’s eyebrows raise by half an inch. Fascinating.

“Computer, where is the captai –”

“HEY GUYS. LOOK WHAT I FOUND.” Jim emerges from the turbolift, charging to the middle of the bridge… with a pair of sparkling antler on his head.

With a hint of amusement, Sulu announces at Jim’s presence, “Captain on the bridge!”

“Captain.” Spock took a step towards Jim, disapproval strongly evident in his tone of doom and judgement.

Jim’s smile freezes on his face.

_Oh right, Spock._

“Oh, hey, Mr. Spock,” Jim coughs, his voice faltering slightly as he turns around to face his First Officer, “you - er, ready for Chrismas?”

_Real smooth, Kirk, real smooth._

“I do not celebrate holidays of Earth origin.” Jim watches as Spock walks to his station and takes the forgotten cup of coffee belonging to Jim, “nor do I see the purpose in it. Captain, the accessory you are currently wearing is unapproved by Starfleet and is incongruent with the Starfleet Officer’s Dress Code.”

“What? Oh, this.” Jim reaches above his head and jiggles one of the bells attached to the antler. “Yea, but don’t you think I’m kinda cute in this?”

If Spock saw Jim’s wriggly eyebrows suggesting of several implied meanings, he certainly did not illicit any visible reaction – like a proper Vulcan would.

“ _Furthermore_ , no foods and drinks are allowed on the bridge. Captain, you of all people should know the regulations of –”

“I know what the rules are, Mr. Spock!” Jim resists the urge to curse, because that is highly unbecoming of a captain in the ‘fleet.

“Then why do you insist on disobeying it?” Jim swears if he squints his eyes a little harder, he could see the way Spock’s slightly raised chin evokes a sense of rebellion and challenge – to what, Jim does not know.

The liveliness in the entire bridge seem to have frozen and become overwhelmingly tense, with its individual officers showing various signs of distress over the rising tension between the Enterprise’s Captain and the XO.

Jim shoots an arrow out of the corner of his eyes. If said figurative arrow is pointed directly in the middle of those goddamn pointy eyebrows of some Vulcan officer, then it may or may not be coincidental. “Okay, since when is it wrong to have fun? We all need to let loose sometimes. Also, it’s _CHRISTMAS_ , Mr. Spock.”

“Captain, it is evident that you have compromised the integrity of a Captain’s professional image due to your lack of control to satisfy your festive moods,” Beside Spock, Uhura stares at the poor paper cup in the Vulcan’s hand. That poor, poor, paper cup was not designed to handle such strength and looks like it was about to give up on its life duty to contain coffee. “If you cannot adhere to the regulations then I suggest you to consult Lieutenant Uhura for guidance on the proper conduct of a Starfleet officer.” 

At the mention of her own name, Uhura snaps her head up and looks at Spock, faintly bemused, “Oh, no. You boys leave me out of this. I’m not getting in the middle of both of your yada-yadas.”

“Compromise the integrity of – jesus, Spock!” Jim turns his head sharply so he can properly scowl at one of Spock’s goddamned pointy ears.

“What’s a little fun on gonna do? It’s not like wearing something cute will cause a riot among the Klingon or start an interstellar war between the Federation and the Romulans. I’m pretty sure they have better use for their precious warbirds.” Now, although Jim is admittedly an exceedingly charming individual, he does not truly believe his own personal attractiveness to be the root cause of a cosmic war. “Now gimme my coffee.”

Spock pauses, as if in consideration of what his Captain has just said. “Captain, I shall hand you your coffee after the removal of that _unauthorised_ object off your head.”

“Are you serious right now?”

“Vulcans are always serious, Captain.”

“Oh, MY GOD. SOMEONE KILL ME NOW.” The amount of frustration currently surging through Jim’s veins is so excessive for a single day’s quota that Jim thinks he might just pass out and never wake up again. At least until the Vulcan is out of his sight.

“Captain, I strongly advise against –”

“Of course you do, Mr. Spock.”

“Please remove the object on your head.”

“Or what? You gonna report me?”

“As I have previously said, the coffee will be available at your command at the removal of the festive object off this bridge.”

“You know what? If you want it off this bridge, you either do something about it or you gotta make me do so. And by the name of the stars, I’m not moving this antler anywhere.”

“Captain, I believe this coffee is no longer in your custody.”

“Give. Me. My. GODDAMNED. COFFEE.”

“If you will remove the object.”

“Why don’t you _make_ me.”

Spock huffs, his eyebrow shifts into gear 8 which says “why do I have to deal with this man-child of a Captain when I should be overseeing the on-going researches on this ship”. He walks over to the Captain’s chair within 4 firm strides. The Captain does not move.

Jim looks up at the Vulcan towering over him, a slight tremor ripples through Jim’s body and his throat draws tight. One part of Jim is curious of what Spock would do. But a bigger part of him questions if his death has arrived early in the form of an inwardly furious Vulcan clawing his face off. Will him, the youngest and self-proclaimed most-charming Captain of the ‘fleet die of a furious Vulcan beating the shit outta his equally-charming ass?

While Jim ponders if it is too late to make his decision of engage or escape, Spock, with a swift movement, snatches the antler off the Captain’s head and tucks it safely in between his arms. “Captain, this item is under confiscation and will cease to belong to you. This coffee, however, is yours.”

“SPOCK YOU LIL – give me back my antler. Or I’ll tell _Bones_ you’re still due to this month’s health inspection.”

“Resorting to illogical threats implies that you see the validity of my argument.”

 

**_“Now that’s enough for today, ladies.”_ **

 

 _Wait, what ladies?_ Jim turns around to the turbolift.

The voice is coming from Dr. McCoy.

“Jim, in case it wasn’t obvious enough, we have better things to deal with – like our own goddamn duties to attend to – than to hear both of ya bitch and whine.”

“Hey! Who’s whining? I’m not whining – right, Uhura?”

Uhura sighs into her hands. This is not what she signed up for when she embarked on the most prestigious of all starships that which Starfleet can offer for her talent.

“Well, get your ass back on that Captain’s chair and drink your coffee – Lord help me if there’s sugar in it. I have a couple of things pending for the _Captain’s_ approval. This includes the latest psychiatric review of the entire crew on the Enterprise.

“Now, you and I know how important that is, Jim. This is the last official paper work until our shore leave approval comes through. The ‘Fleet back on Earth’s been breathing down my goddamned neck; I’d appreciate it if you can go through it real quick.

“And you, Mr. Spock. This whole thing I’d expected from Jim, but you? You’re a Vulcan, for god’s sake! Return to your station and I’ll have Jim write up an appeal for whatever crazy ‘unauthorised item’ he chooses to wear by tonight.”

“That is … agreeable.”

The rest of the officers on the bridge witnessing the previous ridiculous exchange now witness a bunch of PADDS being dumped into their Captain’s lap. In Jim’s silent protests, he chews onto the rim of the paper cup.

Perhaps it is lucky that this part of deep space which the Enterprise is currently crawling through is nearly as uneventful as their away mission on Auv’Ore’y Va of Planet Frauh’v’leh.

(That _had_ to be most torturous mission that the Enterprise has ever undertaken, not in the “we-are-outgunned-by-angry-Klingons-but-we-cannot-escape-because-the-Gorns-are-still-pissed-at-us-for-accidentally-blowing-up-their-astrayed-warbirds-so-they’ve-now-teamed-up-with-the-Klingons” kind of way, but in the “did-the-ambassador-of-said-planet-just-asked-us-to-watch-birds-fly-around-in-the-palace-chamber-for-eight-hours” kind of way.)

But one would argue that to have Dr. McCoy aboard is of greater blessings to the Enterprise, for he is probably the only one in position to keep the Captain and his First Officers in their respective positions when situations gets … out of hand.

The bridge beholds as their Lord and Saviour, Dr. McCoy, exits by the turbolift.

 

The order to the Universe has been restored.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are warm hugs and kudos are kisses!!
> 
> Next Chapter: Jim the man-child baby Captain will show his responsible side and redeem himself.


	2. Not So Annoying, Actually

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kirk tries to communicate with his XO. And lots of pining.

Exiting the shower, Jim towels dry his hair and flops onto his bed.

_Alright. Business time._

In the dim light of his private quarters, Jim pulls out his PADD and immediately winces at the screen’s brightness threatening to blind his own bright baby blues. The screen is dimmed by the flick of Jim’s finger across the screen’s settings.

Jim begins typing.

∞

A soft ping echoes through Spock’s quarters.

Rising from his meditation mat, Spock picks up the PADD and notices the blinking light at the top right hand corner of the device. The blinking light is yellow, different from the usual green which Spock has labelled as a default for all incoming texts from the rest of the crew.

_A private comm. from James T. Kirk. Interesting._

_∞_

>>hey spock

>>Captain.

>>you up????

>>Apparently so.

 

Jim snorts out loud. He flips over, so that he is on his stomach. Hiding a grin in the crook of his arm, Jim begins typing again.

 

>>i want to apologise for my actions today

>>like earlier during our shift

 

>>No apologies needed, Captain.

 

>>no. you’re right spock.

>>i was being dumb

>>like i distracted not only you but also the rest of the crew from their work

>>god knows if a klingon couldve sneaked on board and crashed this ship or something

>>ugh that’d be awful right

 

>>Indeed.

 

At Spock’s response, Jim pauses and considers how Spock is feeling right now. Granted, Vulcans don’t _feel_. Whatever. Jim just wants to make sure he’s not disturbing Spock’s off-duty time with his own illogical rants.

_What does ‘indeed’ suggest? Is Spock amused? Is he still angry at Jim?_

 

>>what im trying to say is that you were right in correcting me, spock

>>and i shouldn’t have flared at you that way

>>enterprise is a hella fine ship

>>and she deserves no less than her officers performing at their finest

 

Besides the text box icon which shows a picture of Jim, it indicates that the Captain is still typing.

Spock waits.

 

>> spok

>>*spock

>>im sorry.

 

Spock is taking longer than usual to respond and Jim immediately curses at his typo. Fuck it. He bets Spock is eyeing that mistake with a raise of his judgemental left eyebrow, no different from the way he points out his disapproval of Jim’s actions every minute of their time together on the bridge.

But Spock only watches the vertical line appearing and disappearing again and again in his type box. He does not know how to respond.

 

>>There is no need for apology, Captain. It serves no distinct purpose in this situation.

 

>>what

>>like not even in conveying how guilty i feel right now???

>> spock

>>im literally in a puddle of my own sorryness

 

>>There is no need for guilt. I trust you will learn from your mistake and monitor your own conduct from now on.

 

After a moment of consideration, Spock added,

 

>>Furthermore, sorryness is hardly a legitimate vocabulary, Captain.

 

Jim snorts for the second time tonight.

 

>>duly noted.

>>and call me jim

>>we’re off duties spock

 

>>Jim.

 

Okay, Jim totally did _not_ read that in Spock’s bedroom voice. Jim is not blushing over a certain Vulcan calling his name because he is not some hormonal teenager. He is a grown man. He is the Captain of the Enterprise, goddammit.

 

>>spock what

 

>>I believe you should start reviewing the psychiatric reports now. By my calculation, you will need to finish 11.982 reports per hour for at least 3.72 hours per day to meet the deadlines as set by Doctor McCoy.

 

>>wow

>>cant a man have a moment to himself

>>i hardly got out of the shower spock

 

>>A Captain has his duties, Jim.

 

>>yeah i know

>>it just sucks sometimes

 

>>A Captain does not suck, Jim.

 

>>er spock

>>that sounds kinda gross

>>also why are we texting each other

>>youre literally like a wall away

 

>>As you may have recalled, this conversation is well initiated by you, Jim.

>>There is a shower separating our quarters.

 

>>so what spock

>>its not a magical shower that blows people apart from each other

 

>>Indeed.

 

One of these days Jim will ban the usage of ‘indeed’ because that just limits the conversation down to essentially nothing. But there is a more important decision to make at this moment, for Jim is now stuck in a dilemma: should he end this conversation now or should he invite Spock over?

 

>>spock

 

>>Yes.

 

>>u wanna come over?

>>could use some help for these reports

 

Jim smirks at his own smoothness.

_Real smooth, Kirk._

 

>>Very well. I shall enter your quarters through the shower now.

 

>>m’kay

 

∞

 

The door panel whooshes open and out of it steps Spock, who is dressed in a loose-fitting black tunic and sweat pants. The relaxed outfit seem to have softened the contours of Spock’s torso and the Vulcan does not seem as stern as he was earlier on the bridge.

When Spock eyes around Jim’s private quarters, Jim feels as if his own person is being placed under a microscope in one of the laboratory which Spock spends way too much time in. Jim’s belly does a flippy thing that has him blushing a little.

Jim coughs into his fists, as if the clearing of his throat is an outlet for the inexplicable embarrassment at his illogical behaviour around Spock.

“Guess we’d better start on the paper work.”

Spock nods.

Eyeing the pile of PADDs at the floor near Jim’s bed, Spock wonders if he should sit himself at Jim’s study desk. That would mean Jim wouldn’t have a proper area to work on besides on the bed. The regulation bed for officers aboard the ship is single-sized, however, there are privileges which are exclusive to Starfleet Captains. The queen-sized bed in which sits Jim proves to be one. It seems logical, then, to join Jim in a bed designed to accommodate both of them comfortably. But to join Jim in bed would be … inappropriate.

Jim seems to catch Spock’s internal conflict, because he drops what looks like half a dozen of PADDs onto the study desk and pulls out The Chair - its design not being unlike the actual Captain’s chair on the bridge, and therefore a rather successful replica, Spock must admit – for Spock to sit in.

“You’ll take the study okay? I’ll be fine in my bed.”

With that, Jim falls into his bed in slow-motion with a graceful flop. Spock observes the way Jim’s body meets at and sinks into the mattress; Jim seems to have placed himself in the strategic position of being near the edge of his duvet, and with an elegant roll, he has successfully cocooned into some form that is in close resemblance to a Japanese sushi roll.

A golden floof of hair emerges from within the duvet, and Jim pops his head out with a gasp for air. Spock watches in faint amusement as Jim struggles to free his arms from the constraints of a duvet roll he has made for himself. Wriggling in his cocooned state, Jim props himself into a position comfortable for reading and puts on his reading glasses – something Jim rarely wears out of his private quarters because it’s not exactly the sexiest thing to be seen in. He feels like an old man in his reading glasses, but whatever. The reports aren’t gonna sort themselves out, as much as Jim would like them to.

Spock is tasked to categorize the reports according to their urgency for Jim’s approval.

The files labelled First Priority is directed to Jim, which Jim will then have to look through in detail, cross-refer to the relevant reports within the last 2 months to get a better view of what he’s dealing with, and then write up a proper, captain-ly response, offering his summarised perspective, before sending it to Spock for second-reading. Meanwhile, Spock is also handling the relatively normal-looking reports that aren’t marked First Priority. These files are less tedious than the ones Jim is handling, a simple browse through the document, double-check the accuracy of the citations and statistics which Spock can recall off the top of his head anyways, ensure the dates aren’t mislabelled – you’d surprised at the frequency of such a rudimentary mistake appearing on an official report, much to Spock’s disapproval – and then a simple sign off would suffice.

The documents which Spock has rechanneled to Jim will be met by a “Gotcha, Spock.” Some of these are redirected back at Spock for him to resolve when Jim’s brows are drawn together and the stylus has been at rest for too long.

Spock and Jim work mostly in silence, accompanied by the low hum of the Enterprise’s engine. Jim would love to have some oldies, 80s jazz music to get these bothersome reports going. But in the presence of Spock, Jim is paranoid he’ll bother Spock with it – he can’t ever see Spock working voluntarily with background music.

For the moment, the evening is punctuated by the staccato clicks of Jim’s stylus on his PADD, which accompanies them through the silence with ease.

Two and half hours into their report-reviewing session, one particular file which has been labelled as First Priority captures Spock’s immediate attention. The file is then sent to Jim’s inbox with a soft ping. However, when Spock did not hear the customary “Gotcha” from Jim, he looks up from the carefully-stacked mountain of PADDs at the sides of his desk.

Under the soft glow of the orange reading light by the bedside, Jim appears to have fallen asleep.

Spock sighs as he rises from his desk, walks across the room – Spock finds himself grateful for his choice to forego footwear, as the heavy regulation boot on the uncarpeted floor of Jim’s quarters may have now awaken Jim – and gathers the PADDs that are littered around Jim’s torso in an abstract circle. Jim barely stirred when Spock removed the stylus from his hand.

Spock then proceeds to reorganize the PADDs into its respective stacks of Read and Approved, Read But Still Requires Revision on Approval, Unread, and Rejected; Spock ensures when he places the stacks on the floor, he does so gently to ease the harsh ‘thud’ sound.

A muffled sound escapes Jim’s throat that sounds somewhat like “G’ngiighh..sphuh –”

Spock pauses. He turns around to face the man deep in slumber properly, and notices Jim's tragically misplaced reading glasses are mashed against his eyes and cheek. An illogical and strange warmness wraps itself around the core of Spock’s being. With slightly trembling fingers, Spock retrieves the pair of glasses from the destruction that is Jim’s uncaring sleepiness.

Spock does not crouch beside Jim’s bed and observes his friend for what feels like an eternity of time. In the same way that his gaze does not linger around Jim’s gently parted lips, nor the shadow of stubble only observable from a distance this close; his superior Vulcan hearing does not pick up the rhythm of Jim’s breathing that is in slow and deep puffs of warm air, nor does Spock tries to match his own breathing pattern against Jim’s.

Spock forces himself to remember how to breathe again as he looks away from the golden hue framing his Captain’s profile.

Spock exits the Captain’s private quarters for his much-required meditation.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are warm hugs and kudos are kisses!!
> 
> Next Chapter: Jim is compromised


	3. Ankaran Flu Strikes The Captain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jim is diagnosed with a serious case of Ankaran flu.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short one because I intend to separate the scenes into respective chapters.

**2 weeks before Christmas**

 

“BoOoOoooOoOoooOnes!”

Two things comes to mind when McCoy hears a sound very similar to a pig’s wail piercing through his office:

1) Jim didn’t get the sex he wanted

2) Jim is sick.

Upon seeing his person, McCoy discovers from the piece of tissue paper hanging out of Jim’s nostril that it is the latter causing Jim’s overly dramatized misery.

He was hoping it’d be the former, dammit.

A Jim Kirk without sex is merely a notch more annoying and whiny than usual. A Jim Kirk that is suffering from illnesses that are not life-endangering is another nightmare altogether, because a Jim Kirk in mild discomfort and pain is bitchy as hell. He is needy in that he wants everything of every remedy McCoy can offer at once and altogether, only to realize it does nothing to solve his state of discomfort, so he copes by being increasingly whiny until McCoy has no choice but to hypo Jim in the butt to save everyone from their troubles (Jim’s for excessive high-pitched whining, McCoy’s for tolerating said high-pitched whining and the related induced-stress and irritation).

The above observation is not a hyperbole, as having shared the same accommodation as Jim during their time at the Academy, McCoy is speaking from his personal experience collected from the thousand times he’s played the role of a doctor, a nurse, a mother and a friend to Jim’s incessant complaints (something which he’d rather not have gone through, in all honesty).

“Boooooones. I’m dying here, aren’t you suppose to do some doctor-y thing on me to make the pain go away?”

The current scene of Jim Kirk, the youngest Captain in Starfleet history, limping across the short distance between the door to the empty bio-bed in the sickbay, with a face akin to a patient suffering from an 8-day constipation and severe cold, is a glorious sight in and of itself to behold. Jim hauls himself onto the bio-bed with a loud groan, cursing at the soreness of his legs and the brick-like surface of the bio-bed, and begins a precise, if not slightly out of breath, re-enactment of all the previous times he has exclaimed his uncaptainly death upon that very same bio-bed.

Jim’s dramatic tendencies even during challenging times earns him an eye-roll and half a curse from McCoy. McCoy pokes Jim in the ribs with one of his lab pointers. Jim lets out a soft ‘oof’, before rolling over on his back with a soft groan to let Bones track his heartbeat and his breathing.

Jim tries not to squirm too much when the cold surface of the stethoscope glides across his bare skin, drawing out an involuntary shiver around Jim’s abdomen as it ripples softly along his spine and limbs. The frown on McCoy’s face seems to indicate something unpleasant, but Jim remains obediently silent for once, and breathes in-and-out every time McCoy shifts the equipment to a different location - along the sides of his ribs, across his chest to somewhere on his back.

McCoy’s brows draw together tight, and now his facial expression seems only one level below Spock’s eyebrow of doom, which, for a human, is a pretty impressive a frown to begin with.

Now, the Marianas Trench of a crease amidst the ominous brows of McCoy confirms something unpleasant _is_ going on.

A fleeting thought of Jim includes the following: _Sweet Mary and Jesus, I am going to die. My time is up. I’m gonna prematurely kick the bucket._

“Bones, Bones, Bones… Am I… Am I pregnant?” Jim gasps an overly dramatic gasp in mock-horror and clutches his lower belly, which is, in fact, bulging slightly.

(The cause of which is not actually due to some alien species implanting a foetus into Jim’s very-much male body, instead, the new codes modified by the techs which now allows for a delicious steak and mash potatoes to be readily available at the replicator stations).

McCoy may or may not have swung the hard end of the stethoscopeto hits Jim’s head with a dull ‘thud’.

“Ow, motherfuc – what was _that_ for?” The pain in Jim’s head comes in short pulses, and is now coupling with a centralised and more intensive migraine that has been lurking in and out of his brain for the past hour or so. The red alert in Jim’s cranium is going crazy right now.

“S’what you get for being a pain in the ass.” A medium sized syringe is retrieved from one of the many medical lockers in the sickbay, along with several bottles of fluids in odd, indescribable bright colours.

Walking across his desk console, McCoy manages to hold onto the many items in his arms while he hits one of the direct-channel buttons to the bridge.

“McCoy to Bridge.”

“Uhura here. Can I help with anything, Sir?”

“Jimmy-boy here has got himself a severe case of Ankaran flu. He’s down for the next four days or so.”

“I shall inform Commander Spock to take over the conn for the time being. Send my regards to the Captain, will you?” Uhura sounds a little resigned and worried. Jim is touched to hear that, actually, because _aww, she cares about me!_

“Hey, Uhura! I’m not dead yet, alrigh –” Jim yells in the general direction of the speaker and _wow_ , he really shouldn’t have done that because now his throat hurts like a bitch.

“Shuddap, you.”

A soft chime from the desk console indicates that McCoy has disengaged the line.

“Thanks to the long-list of allergy you have, I’m gonna have to manually synthesise a bunch of hyposprays that’ll hopefully wipe your sorry ass out for the next 3 days and a half. Now, that’ll take a couple of hours. Go back to your quarters and I’ll have someone bring them up for you.”

“Hey Bones, do you still have one of those sweet berry-flavoured serum thing that works like a painkiller? I think I need those too.” Jim toys with the buttons on the bio-bed, inclining the mattress so he can look Bones in the eye.

“No, Jim. Those aren't painkillers. Those are sedatives. I’m a Doctor and I’m telling you that you don’t need those to cure a bloody Ankaran flu, dammit!” But McCoy walks over and hands Jim a piece of lozenges tablet in the flavour of tangerines. Jim smiles and opens his mouth. McCoy makes a grumbling noise, but pops the tablet into Jim’s mouth anyways.

Jim loves Bones sometimes. Like, all the time, actually. Except when Bones secretly hypos him in the neck. That’s just pure evil.

“Jim, when are you going to leave my sickbay?”

“I’m the Captain and I don’t get to be wherever I wanna be on this ship? That’s unfair!” Jim whines in a high pitch, determined to piss his friend off. His laughter falters when he sees the giant hypo in McCoy’s left hand.

_Shit. He’d better flee._

_∞_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are warm hugs and kudos are kisses!!
> 
> Next Chapter: spock to the rescue


	4. Ankaran Flu Anguish (Of Sorts)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim secretly relishes in Spock's body heat while Spock remains inwardly concerned about his one and only Captain. Also hot showers are awesome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slightly longer chapter to compensate for the delayed updates.  
> lots of pining, as usual.

“Captain.”

_Hmm.._

“Captain.”

The insistent, velvety voice coming from somewhere above his head seems vaguely familiar. Although at this moment, Jim’s mind is shrouded in lethargy; said voice only forms an echo, its reverberating pitch being of a frequency slightly above Jim’s range of perception.

“Jim.”

 _Hmm– hmph?_  Jim feels the voice calling his name as it glide over his mind in its blurriness. _Spock?_

If that is Spock voluntarily addressing himself by the first-name basis, then Jim never wants to be awake again. This is officially the best dream ever. Jim mentally presents himself a Certificate of Merit in Best Creative Dream in the Annual Dream Festival held in his mind.

_One point to Jimmy. Good job._

“Jim, are you unwell?”

The voice seems to be less distant now. An unidentified source of warmth circles around Jim’s upper arm and slowly radiates as it wraps around Jim’s stream of consciousness.

_Hmm… That’s nice._

Jim stirs, shifting to accommodate more of the warmth, basking in the comfort. The warmth bumps and pushes against Jim, bouncing off him. When Jim tries to nuzzle into the delicious warmth, the radiance flickers and diminishes into its original state, centralised around Jim’s upper arm.

A shiver runs across Jim’s body as holding on tightly to its glimmer as it threatens to disappear like a starship going into warp, only leaving behind a faint trail of ions.

_Nooooo, don’t go…_

But the warmth is withdrawn at once, its emptying force jolting Jim to full awakeness with a startled gasp.

Jim feels the warmth returning to his arm. It belongs to Spock, who is crouching beside Jim’s bed, his hand clasping Jim’s arm. Jim lets his eyes fall close for a moment.

Before long, Spock nudges him again. “Captain, are you unwell?”

Cracking his eyes open, Jim looks at Spock from beneath his blanket. He has wrapped himself into a cocooned again, this time, burrito style – only the top of his head can be seen but not his feet.  Jim clears his throat, discovers to his displeasure that his throat is still raw, and throws out a single word at Spock, “Understatement.”

As expected, a single eyebrow is raised.

“Doctor McCoy has ordered you 4 days of medical leave. I have with me your prescribed hyposprays to be used every 8 hours. Captain, you are confined to within the parameters of your quarters and mine for the time being.”

“This sucks.” Jim makes a non-committal noise and tightens his blanket-burrito around himself. Taking in the view of his First Officer still clad in uniform, Jim deduces with the remaining of his brain cells that Alpha shift has just ended. “How’s the shift?”

“There are no anomalies observed during the remaining hours of my shift with which you have resigned to your quarters for rest, Captain. Mr. Scott has finished the integration of faulty light circuits on Deck 6.” After a brief moment of consideration, Spock added, “Lieutenant Uhura and Ensign Chekov convey their sympathy to your current state of health.”

“Glad you had fun while I’m off here melting my bones into jelly. ”

“Hardly so, Captain. This may be attributed to the symptoms of the Ankaran flu, which includes soreness, migraines, running nose and fever; however, a recent research suggests that vomiting is subjected to individuals who fail to maintain regular, healthy diet.”

“For God’s sake, I know what the symptoms are! I’m the one who’s ‘confined to within the parameters of my quarters’, remember? Ugh.” Jim even does the whole air bracket thing to highlight his displeasure, or he tries to, anyways.

Moving a single strand of muscle seems to require more energy than he can care to harness right now, so as you can imagine, the virus has successfully reduced Jim into a limp and lifeless body of ‘what-the-fuck-do-I-care’.

“Doctor McCoy has also suggested that I attend to your needs for the time being.” Jim watches in silence as Spock moves from beside his bed to the replicators within a few of his Vulcan pride-strides. Neither of them speaks as Spock retrieves one particularly big dose of hypospray from the medical kit and return to Jim with a glass of warm water in hand. “Perhaps keeping your body hydrated will ease the discomfort.”

Jim gulps down the water is a very un-captainly manner. He has zero cares to give about his etiquettes right now. Resting the empty glass aside, Jim shifts into a more comfortable position to ease the pain throbbing in his ankles; he props the pillow up and tilt his head to the side, giving Spock better access for the hypospray.

“Okay, hit me.”

Spock lifts his right eyebrow this time, and deadpans, “Hardly so, Captain.”

Jim wants to curse Spock, really. He wants to ruffle the immaculate bangs of his XO just to get back at him for his horrible, totally un-funny, Vulcan-only jokes. But with a soft hiss of the hypospray mechanism, the serum has entered his system and Jim could feel the rush of the drugs setting in. His heartbeat slows down gradually from its initial irregular thrumming. The world spins in slow-motion around Jim, as if determined to lull him to sleep. His eyelid feels really heavy now, and his hearing is dulled to the point where he can no longer hear the humming of the Enterprise’s engines.

Jim lets out a series of soft, unrecognizable sounds; even with the superior Vulcan hearing and the mind of a linguist, Spock find himself unable to comprehend Jim’s words – or if they are words at all. What Spock can notice very clearly, however, is the unexpected rush of protectiveness as he watches the blues of his Captain’s eyes slowly fall to a close.

_Rest now, Jim._

_The Enterprise and her crew needs her Captain well and sound._

 

∞

 

The moment Jim cracks open his eyes after a long sleep is, incidentally, the moment a sharp pain ripples across his chest and spreads down to his lower back. Jim curses under his breath, and immediately frowns at the strange taste of foul bitterness on his tongue. Breathing through his nose is proving to be a huge challenge, with his right nostril blocked; his throat feels scratchy like somebody has poured a bucket of sand over it.

Shifting around his now-too-stuffy bed, Jim yanks the heavy layer of duvet off himself. A rush of cold, conditioned and recycled air meets Jim’s exposed skin on his neck, his arms and his knees, drawing out a full body shiver from Jim’s sickly body. The uncarpeted floor in Jim’s quarters feels too hard and way too cold when Jim settles his bare feet softly on the ground. Jim’s clammy, insubordinate muscles fails to hold him upright when he tries to stand by pushing himself off the bed; his knees buckles, giving way without warning and Jim’s pretty face very nearly kisses the ground hard.

That is, until a pair of strong arms, wraps itself across Jim’s underarms and waist, catching the man in time for his inglorious fall.

Jim isn’t sure what he was expecting, but seeing his First Officer’s face zooming in this close to his own certainly is not one of them. Up close, Jim can see the faint traces of stubble shadowing along Spock’s jaw. It seems so odd because his First Officer is usually so immaculate; never a single stray hair out of place. The idea that Spock is capable of actually growing a full beard like Jim is so… _weird_. God, Jim sounds dumb even in his own mind. He blames it on the Ankaran flu.

The browns of Spock’s eyes are bright even under the dim lights of Jim’s quarters – wait, what time is it? How long exactly has Jim been sleeping? – Spock is looking at Jim. And Jim looks back. For a brief moment, the world zeros in to the shines and sparkles of Spock’s eyes meeting Jim’s.

The connection is interrupted by the sharp pull of muscle on Jim’s strained left ankle. Jim lets out an unexpected yelp, nearly losing his balance in his attempt to alleviate the weight he puts on his left foot. Spock clutches onto Jim tighter.

Suddenly aware of the arm that spread across his shoulder, under his arms, Jim can feel the warmth radiating from Spock’s body to his even across the layers of clothing.

“Hey Spock,” Jim pulls himself upright and gives his raspy throat a good cough, “can you bring me a glass of water? Don’t think I can walk a lot.”

Spock releases his hold on Jim, acquiescing with a curtly nod of his head as he watches Jim return to sitting in his bed. The chronometer beside Jim’s beside table shows the current time being 23:54. Jim has been sleeping for nearly six hours since his first dose of the antidote. No wonder his throat feels as dry as it is.

Craning his head a little to get a better view of where Spock is standing, Jim sees the soft, orange light streaming from the lamp on his study desk, with multiple stacks of PADDs stacked in neat piles across the surface. While Jim has been recuperating, Spock has worked through a significant amount of paperwork on the behalf of his sickly Captain.

“You didn't have to do that, you know,” Jim took the warm glass from Spock, careful not to brush the Vulcan’s fingers – partly due to the Vulcan cultural taboo thing, but mostly because he didn't want to get Spock sick too. The Enterprise can’t risk both her Captain and First Officer to be off-duty at the same time.

“Captain, hydration is central to your recovery from the Ankaran flu. The serum within the hypospray may work as an antidote against the virus, but the human biology requires sufficient hydration to recuperate its bodily function efficiently.”

Jim garners the remaining of his strength from his sickness to laugh softly at the sight of Spock’s drawn-together eyebrows. If Vulcan eyebrows can convey the feelings of a Vulcan – _if, if, if Vulcan has feelings, that is, hypothetically_ – Spock seems very much confused right now.

Jim hides the weaker version of his goofy grin behind the glass of water. He is, rather unfortunately, unsuccessful at his attempt. The glass is transparent. “No, I mean the PADDs.”

Spock lets out a particularly long exhale, which may or may not have been a Vulcan sigh. He resists the urge to cite the regulation regarding the duty of a First Officer as Acting Captain in the event of the Captain being unable to remain in his position due to medical reasons. Neither does Spock provide the fact that they are 27.013% behind the designated schedule on reviewing and signing off the crew’s psychiatric report, and the calculated potentiality of the Enterprise not being able to return to its starbase on Earth in time for Christmas celebration being 13% higher than before Jim had fallen sick to Ankaran flu.

_Now is not the time. Jim needs rest._

Instead, Spock simply replies, “It is my duty to provide assistance when you require it, Jim.”

Jim hums as he bottoms-up the last mouthful of water from the glass in his hands.

He’s not sure if Spock has remembered to drop in his prescribed dissoluble tablet of Paracil into the water that he has just drunk. As a child, Jim used to be so fascinated by the intense bubbling of the dissoluble tablets; watching the fast-disappearing tablet rising up from the swarming white foams in the glass of water reminded him of the late 20th century space rockets taking off, so much smoke would trail behind the rocket craft, all that amount of fuel trying to push humanity’s footsteps further, higher, to the final frontier –

“Captain, captain – _Jim_.”

A light, half-grasp of the Vulcan’s hand brings Jim’s drifting mind back to the present.

 “Yea, I just – got a little distracted. Is it time for another dose of the devils?” Jim gulps involuntarily, staring at the giant medkit bag currently resting on the counter surface beside the replicator. The sheer size of it is nearly as offensive as the ominously bright colours of the synthesized serum in its respective, equally giant-sized hyposprays; Jim takes it as a big ‘fuck you’ from the good doctor.

“The prescribed dosage is once per 8 hours, Captain. As you have been asleep for 5.82 hours since your previous shot, the next serum containing the antidote will be given in the next 2.18 hours. Meanwhile, your experience of pain in the cranial and pectoral region is likely to increase exponentially. You may prefer to remain bed-ridden until the antidote can be administered to you.”

How Spock always manages to speak so eloquently, Jim does not know; his own tongue feels really numb right now. Maybe it’s because his XO is not the one suffering from the god-forbidden Ankaran flu. That, or Spock gets off on Jim’s sufferance and misery. Jim hopes it’s the former, really.

“Wow, you make me sound like I am dying.” Chuckling weakly, Jim sits at the side of his bed and starts pulling off his socks. “Also, I need a hot shower right now.”

“Jim, perhaps it is better –” Jim watches as Spock’s eyebrows shifts into gear 4, which indicates a sign of “I worry of your shenanigans posing a threat to your personal safety”.

“Hey-hey, I’m pretty positive I smell like a giant blob of expired cheese right now.” He gives his black regulation undershirt a tug at the hem, pulling it free off his chest in one breath. Slightly ruffled, Jim is 1701% sure he saw Spock taking in a bigger-than-average inhale; but right now, Jim simply does not have any spare brain cells to contemplate if Spock’s gasp was due to his own stale body odour or the sight of his bare chest.

“Come help me up, Spock.”

A hint of hesitation is visible through the way Spock stands in the middle of the room and stares at Jim as if he is unable to process what Jim has just requested. For a moment, Jim questions if he has crossed the thin, dotted line forming the boundary between their professional relationship and their almost-there friendship.

But when Jim holds out his hands, Spock walks to Jim’s side and stands in silence, close enough for Jim to rest his left palm on Spock’s right shoulder to share some of his weight on Spock.

In their proximity, the scent of cinnamon on Spock teases Jim in its faintness – he knows of the spice tea Spock always keep by his side when he ploughs through the paperwork – in the same way that some of the Vulcan heat is seeping from the feather-light touch of Spock’s palm to the right of Jim’s lower waist. Jim chews on the insides of his mouth.

Everything feels magnified. Everything feels … off. And intensely overheated.

This is _madness_.

Forget about how scarily humongous the hyposprays are, Jim actually would volunteer to hypo himself in the butt to stop this Ankaran flu madness. It’s screwing his brain and it’s not at all a funny business, especially not so in the month of Christmas.

∞

Breathing gets slightly easier upon Jim’s entrance to the bathroom. His lungs are still burning with every breath he takes; with Spock out of sight, at least the situation will not escalate to Jim gasping for air like a fish out of water, flopping about with all of its dying strength and desperation.

Under the smooth flow of water that is slightly above Jim’s body temperature, Jim’s erratic breathing patterns begins to regulate itself; rapid, shallow intakes, are smothered into slow, long exhales. Not bothering with the shower soap, Jim has his hands propped up against the cool tiles of the shower and lowers his head, hot water trickling down from the nape of his neck to salvage the situation of his twitchy back muscles.

A wiser choice would be to opt for a sonic shower and get rid of his stinking body. Real water is precious in outer-space and he feels the need to conserve its supply for the ship’s other important usages, but one thing that has been a universal constant since the olden days is the therapeutic, curing traits of a hot shower on one’s health.

_Breathe in, breathe out. In… and out._

Once the tight knot in his shoulder is released, breathing becomes much, much easier; the pounding in his head has now retreated into some other distance quadrant of space; his joints no longer feel like they have one of those construction toys – “legos” – stuck in them.

Under the gentle caress of the hot current from overhead, Jim feels himself coming alive once again. Jim fiddles with the power and temperature control, determined to chase away any lingering discomfort; he stands in the shower for a while longer, until his skin turns lobster-red and his limbs turn into jelly pudding.

Standing a midst the swirling steam from his shower, Jim skips his after-shower shaving session; instead, he draws quick wipes over his body with a new towel found in the bathroom storage compartment before the chill starts settling in on his skin.

The moment Jim hangs the damp towel across his shoulder is also the moment Jim realize he’s forgotten to retrieve his set of new clothes beforehand. It has become a habitual routine of Jim’s to shower, towel dry in the bathroom and then dress himself properly in his _private_ quarters; the habit has now, in return, backfired on Jim’s sorry ass.

 _Shit_. He can’t do _that_ with Spock working in the room right now. _Shitshitshit shit –_

The hot steam has coalesced into tiny water droplets and Jim can feel the chill creeping in.

Jim thought, _aw, fuck it –_

_∞_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hated to have to end this with a cliffhanger (of sorts) but my writing speed is slowing down and i'm gonna have rest for a bit before coming back to this. i hope you lovelies won't mind.
> 
> Comments are warm hugs and kudos are kisses!!
> 
> next chapter: continuation of the bathroom scene


	5. Agony of Vulcan Massages & More-Than Friendship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More drama ensues from the previous awkward bathroom scene. Spock's control is slipping, Jim receives unexpected treatment. Unsurprisingly, lots of angsty pining.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning for slight mention of sexual arousal**
> 
> Also, many many advance apologies for the delayed updates. I've just moved to England and I've been trying to settle in the new environment for my college. I hope I can finish this fic soon.

At the sound of the bathroom door being slid open hastily, Spock lifts his head up from the piles of PADDs that have covered most of the surface area on the study desk. 

 

Spock’s breathless for precisely 4.12 seconds while his heart gave a series of palpitations lasting 2.06 seconds; he believes this experience is not unlike what humans commonly describe as ‘heart flutters’.

 

The Captain - _Jim_ , is standing in front of the entry to the bathroom. But that is beside the point. Spock has no intention on entering the bathroom at this moment. The point is, Jim is wearing but a makeshift robe that is the regulation towel wrapped low around his hip. Jim’s skin is flushed, a glistening sheen of moisture observable even at Spock’s distance - an obvious result caused by the increase in blood flow due to prolonged exposure to hot water. Traces of water droplets hangs at the end of the individual spikes of Jim’s damp and tussled hair; Spock watches as one of which falls and glides across the expanse of Jim’s neck, lingering at the curves of his collarbone when Jim wipes his feet on the floor mat before the bathroom entry. Spock observes the way Jim’s diaphragm expands and contracts, its motion slow and smooth;unlike the erratic pattern which took form when Jim was resting in his bed nearly an hour ago. Well-toned muscles shift and cast shadows of different forms across the planes of Jim’s abdomen and at the sides of his ribs - where the heart would anatomically be positioned at, if Jim be Vulcan like him.

 

Having a Vulcan stare at his very-much naked self in stoic silence - Jim absolutely refuses to use the word ‘gawk’ - for what feels like an eternity of life is, to say the least, _exposing._ It’s not just any Vulcan who is staring, either. It’s _Spock_ , for God’s sake! It’s almost the same experience as one being placed under a microscopic viewfinder, with all of one’s insecurities being laid bare for inspection before the most scientifically brilliant mind in the big o’ alpha quadrant, which, _yeah, no._

 

Jim tugs on the loose knot on his pseudo-bathrobe and lets out a soft cough.

 

“Spock, I need you to turn around.”

 

With an acquiescing nod, Spock spins The Chair around at an adequate velocity that does not show signs of hesitation or unwillingness - not that he is experiencing those, for that matter. 

 

As Jim starts to fumble around his wardrobe for a suitable off-duty pyjamas, the constant muffled shuffling of fabrics does not escape the Vulcan’s hearing, hard as Spock may have tried to shift his focus to the the golden ratio mural that is placed on the wall of Jim’s quarters. 

 

An image assaults Spock’s mind; he pictures himself dragging his fingers down the flushed chest belonging to Jim, Spock could feel Jim giving out an involuntarily shudder when he piano-plays across Jim’s spine; with soft touches and gentle mapping, Spock could memorize the softness and alien coolness of belonging to Jim’s skin; he could bring out soft sighs and low moans by pressing his lips to parts of Jim’s body. And If Spock inhales deep enough, he could take in the scent belonging to his mate, his _t’hy’la_ - 

 

But that is only fiction. Vulcans do not indulge in fantasy. The cooling heat lingering on his own fingertips is but a false sensory experience.

 

A soft sneeze that has escaped Jim’s person has Spock perked up at the edge of The Chair. Spock silently curses – _corrects_ – his own negligence; he should have procured adequate clothing for Jim’s shower, for Jim now stands half-naked in the room; with his below-average state of health and proven-to-be-inferior human immune system, the risk of him suffering from a cold – _on top of the Ankaran flu_ – is significantly higher. Spock cannot allow this to happen. _How_ could he not have observe such simple –

 

“How long till the next hypo?” 

 

Spock, withdrawing from the conversation with himself, falters slightly at the sound of Jim’s voice from behind him; but only for a moment. His Vulcan internal chronometer remains perfectly functional. Spock does not need to turn around in reference to the chronometer device positioned at Jim’s bedside table, so he replies with confidence, “Your next dosage will be administered in one hour, fourteen minutes and seventeen seconds.” 

 

Spock moves his hands from the arm rests of The chair to place them on his flat on knees; he is careful not to curl his fingers together to form fists. Spock drew one, singular breath, and when he exhale, he merely remain as he still as is. He is in control. The situation does not need to be further escalated. 

 

“Right. Of course.” Jim pulls on a fresh pair of boxer-briefs and an oversized old t-shirt that says “Boldly Go-Go”. Decides to forego his sweatpants, Jim hops right back into bed and pulls the heavy layer of duvet over his cold legs. “M’kay, turn ‘round now.”

 

Spock nudges the floor with his socked feet and spins right around to see Jim reaching into a compartment underneath his bed riser. A bottle of dark, red liquid is retrieved from within. Spock watches in silence as Jim’s bare feet appears from underneath the duvet; the red liquid, which now appears to be oil based, is applied to Jim’s ankle generously. When Jim rubs hard on the bony part of his ankle, it gives off a strong, peppermint-like scent. 

 

“What is the purpose of this oil?” Spock regrets not being able to examine the bottle clearer from his current position at the study desk; but when Jim throws the palm-sized bottle of oil at Spock’s direction, Spock catches it in his left hand with ease. The warmness of the oil bottle is rather unexpected, although Spock cannot conclude with certainty if the cause of which is due to the nature of the oil, or the remaining of Jim’s body heat upon the glass-like material of the bottle. Reading through the labels, Spock discovers the medicated oil consists mainly of Peppermint Oil, Clove Oil and traces of Methanol. 

 

“Bones got it from the last shoreleave on Earth. S’pose to help with everything that hurts.” Jim runs his oily fingers along his toes and back to his ankle, where he applies a firm pressure to his aching joint. “Tingles when you rub ‘em in muscle knots.” 

 

“Are you experiencing increasing discomfort, Jim?” Spock makes a note on his PADD. He is maintaining close monitor of Jim’s conditions and sending 2-hourly updates to Dr. McCoy.

 

“The shower helped a little, I guess,” Jim hums, “My shoulder and lower back still hurts like a bitch. Can’t fix what I can barely reach. Did Bones give any painkillers?” 

 

“The antidote has traits similar to conventional painkillers. Your discomfort shall be eased soon, Jim.” Spock glances at the bottle of medicated oil currently being held hostage in his palm. A moment of hesitation is spared, before Spock intones, “Perhaps I could help alleviate the pain you experience on your shoulder.”

 

Jim snaps his focus away from his ankle to look at Spock proper. 

 

_Wait, did Spock just offered him a back rub?_

 

For a Vulcan, Spock’s sitting position is pretty impressive. But Jim has known Spock long enough to read past his Vulcan-like facade. Even under the dim light of Jim’s private quarters, Jim sees a tease of green tinge threatening to creep up the Vulcan’s cheeks and ears, even as Spock sits silently, effortlessly still in The Chair. 

 

The Spock that Jim sees with his own eyes, at this moment, seems almost earnest. From the angle at which Spock is looking at Jim, the Vulcan’s usually demeaning eyes takes up an entirely different quality; when Jim realises the way Spock’s eyes exudes an almost-smile softness towards him, Jim’s insubordinate heart does an abrupt coiling motion that leaves him a little breathless. 

 

It’s times like this that Jim really starts to doubts his own perception of reality and his proficiency in Spockism; Jim’s mind may have truly gone hay-wired, but right now he sees Spock as someone more than a friend. Sure, they make a good command team - the best and brightest in the Fleet; but the real fun begins during their common off-duty time. Spock almost always spends majority of his off-duty time - even excluding the extra hours he stays in the science labs - with Jim. Spock could have easily, and reasonably retired to his quarters, but most nights he and Jim would duel in chess or spend time at the gym; in both of which circumstances, it ends with Jim getting his ass whooped by the Vulcan, but only in jest. Spock’s presence in Jim’s life has become increasingly significant; Jim relies on Spock on almost everything - his council, his approval, his alternate proposals, the gentle flick of his talented eyebrows. Jim also knows neither of them will vocalise their thoughts half as much as they should, although in reality, they probably care twice as much more about one another than any other individual ever did. 

 

So yes, Spock is his XO. Spock is also a friend. Scratch that, Spock is more than a friend. _Where was he again?_

 

Jim shares a secret smile with himself when he sees Spock still sitting in The Chair, waiting for his response.

 

Spock watches in silence as the “Boldly Go-Go” shirt is removed with a swift motion and left aside on the bed, along with the duvet. Jim flops over so that he is lying on his stomach. Resting his head comfortably on his right arm, he looks over to Spock, pats at the edge of the mattress, and says, “C’mere.”

 

**∞**

Vulcan massages are _different._

 

Vulcan massages are only similar to a human’s in that both are the perfect method to untie the muscle knots. But that’s it. _That is it._

 

Human massages are sensual. It is often tantalising in its administration; gentle pressure that glides along skin, taking the pain off worn-out muscles with dull promise of pleasure. It is a relaxation. That is, one can easily fall asleep under the caress ofa pair of soft hands. Jim recalls all the times he’d received massages; it is not wholly unexpected that Little Jimmy would jump into the massage session and say ‘ _heyyyyy’_ to the masseurs. 

 

Vulcan massages, however, is almost a torture session. It is a customised, personalised torture session to bring out the most excruciating pain through a constant, staccato kneading and slapping at places Jim didn’t even know could hurt so bad. Said administration method may or may not cause one to feel like a useless slab of dough being thrown about and prepared for some alien cooking ritual. So yes, Little Jimmy definitely does not want to say a very inviting _‘heyyy’_. Little Jimmy would very much willingly retreat to safety, thank you very much.

 

“ _Motherfuc-_ Ow!” Jim instinctively throws an arm over his shoulder and yelps in protest when a sharp pain tore across his being. Spock is rubbing at his shoulder blades _way_ too hard.

 

“Perhaps you should cease your complaints.” Spock rubs his palms together to warm up his palm full of medicated oil.

 

“Perhaps,” Jim turns his head back around so he could properly scowl at Spock, who is currently sitting on top of Jim’s lower back. “Perhaps you should consider treating me like a human being and not a slab of meat you’re whacking senselessly at. I do feel pain, you know.”

 

“Pain is only relative. It can be controlled by the mind.” Spock presses down at a new knot a little harder with his right thumb as if to make a point. 

 

Jim makes _his_ point by biting down on his cheek and trying to the best of his ability to convert the un-captainly embarrassing whine threatening to leave his throat into a very, very long and shaky exhale. For the moment, Jim remains silent on his stomach while Spock shifts to position himself lower so that he is straddling Jim’s thighs. 

 

It may be his imagination, but Jim feels that Spock seems to be less merciless in his administration as per Jim’s request. Growing comfortable with the feeling of Spock’s sitting atop himself, Jim relaxes and gives in to the heat of Spock’s palm. He closes his eyes and lets out pairs of soft inhales and exhales.

 

None of them spoke for the rest of the duration. 

 

On the 23.5minutes mark since the beginning of Spock’s massage to Jim, Spock feels Jim’s body goes limp underneath him. Spock tenses, but only for a second. Spock rests both his palm atop a position slightly above Jim’s lower back.

 

By now, Spock has worked through most of Jim’s shoulder and back. Unsure of what to do, Spock takes a breath to consider his options.

 

In the single breath that Spock takes, the strong scent of the medicated oil assaults Spock’s senses. Now that his focus is no longer on relieving Jim’s pain, Spock is acutely aware of the tingling sensation on his oil-coated fingers, caused by the peppermint content within the medicated oil. A sharp pleasure tears across Spock when he rubs the tip of his middle finger against his thumb; in haze of his flaring arousal, Spock grinds down at Jim’s limp torso involuntarily and lets out a soft gasp. Spock is harder than he has ever been since he reached puberty.

 

_This is indecent._

 

Spock feels Jim stirring beneath him, and rises immediately off the bed. In his guilt, Spock leaves to the bathroom and washes his hand clean of the medicated oil. He returns with a small blanket from his quarters and a hypospray from the medkit. The blanket is draped over the layer of duvet of which Jim is sleeping under, the corners of the blanket is carefully tucked away in case Jim stirs during his sleep. 

 

“Turn your head over, Jim.” Spock crouches beside the bed and gently nudges his Captain deep in slumber. 

 

He watches as Jim does a chewing motion, nuzzling himself deeper into the warmth of the double layer blanket-duvet. Spock sighs, relenting to tug and lower the blanket around Jim’s neck. The hypospray lets out a soft hiss, so does Jim.

 

Jim makes a confused noise when he cracks open his heavy-lidded eyes, and in his lethargy, mumbles, “Hmm… Shpuh-k.. ‘neigh.”

 

“Goodnight, Jim.” Spock replies, hesitating only a moment to reach his hands out and brush away the loose hair hanging over Jim’s face. Spock is rewarded by the soft ‘hmm’ that Jim lets out contentedly. Smoothening out the creases on the blanket, Spock retreats to the study desk. The reports will not sort itself out. 

 

Accompanied by the sounds of Spock typing on the PADDs, Jim quickly falls back asleep.

 

**∞**

 

****When Jim wakes up the next day at 0900, his shoulders relaxed and his breathing easy, he is alone in his quarters.

 

Spock is nowhere to be seen.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are warm hugs and kudos are kisses!!
> 
> Next Chapter: Jim is pissed off (for various reasons) & Spock's confession (of another sort).


	6. Remnants of Amanda's Affection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim is pissed at Spock for being irresponsible. But then Spock talked about Amanda and, well, Jim ended up crying a little inside. Otherwise known as, the part where Jim realizes how amazingly affectionate Spock can be. (Very).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this timeline of the story, Christopher Pike is alive. I will never forgive what Abrams did to Pike.

Jim is taking longer than previously expected to recover. Meanwhile, Jim has developed a comfortable routine which sometimes requires Spock’s contributions.

  

Under the influence of the heavy dosage of the antidote against Ankara flu, Jim sleeps dead like a sack of potatoes through most of his days. Although Jim doesn’t get to see Spock as much as he’d love to, he is aware that in the afternoon (according to the ship’s standard time, anyways), Spock would take a brief moment during his mess break to check up on his Captain’s conditions before returning to alpha shift for the remaining of his replacement duty. Jim knows this because when he wakes up - usually around 1400 - there’d be a heat-generating meal tray - on which sets a bowl of warm soup and replicated bread, along with a PADD resting stand-by on his bedside table. 

 

As Jim struggles to quell his nausea enough to accommodate most of the soup content, he reads through the duty reports which Spock has filed into the PADD for his viewing purposes. Jim usually manages about two or three reports before the lethargy comes rolling in like tidal waves, overwhelming his being with its clingy heaviness. That, or when the content of the soup starts swelling up in his stomach and Jim needs to use the bathroom right this second if not he’ll throw up whatever he has just eaten in bed. And then he would clamber back to bed in his weakened state and let the lull of his illness take over his fuzzy conscience into deep slumber. The next time Jim would wake up is during the evening, where Spock, having ended his shift, would return to Jim’s quarters and see to Jim’s prescribed hyposprays in all of his Vulcan sombreness. 

 

Today is no exception to the newly established routine of Jim Kirk the Sickly.

 

Jim awakes to the whooshing sound of the door sliding open. 

 

Supporting his weight on his elbows, Jim pulls himself to a semi-upright position and attempts to readjust his reading glasses to its dignified position, before yawning, “ ‘ey, stranger. Fancy seeing you here.”

 

“Captain?” 

 

“Uhm, haven’t seen you in the past few days ’s’all.” Jim moves to shuffle himself further into his duvet. “How’s our ship?”

 

“There were no anomalies observed across all shifts over the past 6 days of your illness, Jim.” Spock walks over to Jim’s study desk and wakes the console with a gentle flick of his finger across the touch-sensitive screen. He refreshes the archives of the report viewer and waits for the latest documents he has filed in to load. Meanwhile, Spock refers to his primary PADD and continues, “the minor repairs on Deck 18 is expected to complete within the next hour. Ensign Adams has confirmed the order list for restock of aluminium foils supply in the cargo bay, which will be ready for collection at the San Francisco starbase.”

 

“Jeez, I don’t know about that, Spock.” Jim reaches to smoothen out a particularly insistent cowlicks in his hair. “I mean, those psych reviews man. I’ve been trynna work on it, trust me, I have. But the hypos are wiping out most of my brain cells. I don’t even know if we’ll arrive back on Earth in time for the Holidays.”

 

As the Captain of the USS Enterprise, Jim is feeling absolutely like a douchebag right now. He was supposed to take care of the ship and her crew. Dammit, he was suppose to make sure the assignments and paperworks are done by the deadline so his honest, hardworking officers can return to home for a well-deserved shoreleave. Instead, he is stuck here in his bed with his brain melting into jelly like a warp core malfunction. He is pathetic. And he knows for sure that Spock will hate him for being this incompetent human weakling of a Captain; Jim won’t blame him, honestly. Even himself can’t tolerate his meagre existence right at this moment.

 

Jim seeks for the expected quarter-of-an-inch raise in Spock’s talented left eyebrow of doom and judgement. Instead, he hears Spock continues the report with his usual poise and unwavering stoicism. “Lieutenant Uhura has received the confirmation of our return to Earth, Captain. The current ETA is approximately 5.87 days.”

 

“Wait wait wait - just _wait_ there for one second -” Coughing particularly loudly, Jim nearly choked on his own saliva as he pushed himself upright from his previously slouching posture.

 

“Jim?” Spock tilts his head at angle and pauses, before extending the display of his PADD to Jim.  

  

Spock observes as Jim drags his index finger across the screen to look at the document on the reader. Spock’s right ear very nearly twitched as a feline otherwise would when he picks up Jim’s soft gasp. 

 

“Wha - how- _how_ is this possible?” Jim pinches the screen with his thumb and index finger, this time, zooming in on the iconic signature of Admiral Pike on the shoreleave approval. Jim reads aloud as he scans through the document. 

 

“ ‘On stardate 2258.356, The USS Enterprise will return to its repair station on Earth at 1230 as per standard ship time’, and uhm, something about new edition of the Prime Directive being implemented, okay, more cargo bay upgrades, uninteresting software additions, yada yada,

 

“Oh, wait, ‘The crew of Enterprise will each receive 14 standard days of shoreleave.’ ”

 

In his wait for Jim to attach his lower jaw back to its initial, anatomically correct position, Spock remains silent and still with all his Vulcan ease. It is not until Jim started rotating his head towards Spock at a turtle-crawling speed that Spock felt compelled to inquire about his Captain’s well-being. 

  

“Captain?”

 

“Spock.”

 

“Jim?” 

 

“We’re going home? Like, is this for real?” Jim is pulling his blanket off himself and the layers are not coming off fast enough. Off, off, gotta get these off - and stands up from his bed. Jim marvels at the fact that he took only 5 strides to get to Spock, despite the whoozy feeling of his blood rushing from him standing too fast. He grabs Spock by the shoulder with his clammy hands, and when he speaks, his voice is practically bouncing with excitement and disbelieve. 

 

“We’re gonna be in time for the Holidays?”

 

“Yes, Jim.” Spock replied, quite matter-of-factly.

 

∞

  

It was as if a miracle has arrived in time to save the crew of the Enterprise from crawling through deep space in their silent agony. It all seems so surreal. Jim cannot begin to understand how the Enterprise had gotten the green light to return to Earth. 

 

Now hold that thought, how did it all happen? 

 

In his sickness, Jim had not been involved in any of the daily running of the ship, so he has nothing to do with the sudden twist in the story. 

 

So how did it all happen?

 

∞

  

Confused beyond himself, Jim consults his reliable First Officer upon the puzzling matter. “Wait, how did we even get the clearance from the Headquarters? What happened to that pile of psych reviews?”

 

“Jim, I - ” Spock begins, but Jim raises his palm and cuts through Spock’s mid-sentence.

  

“Oh, my god. Oh. My. God. I don’t believe this.” Running his fingers through his hair, Jim started pacing in small, asymmetrical circles. “This is unbelievable. Spock, did you do all those reports by yourself?”

 

“Yes, Jim.” Spock watches as his Captain turned around sharply, his circular pacing route disrupted. 

 

“Are you out of your Vulcan mind? You can’t just marathon your way through the 276 reports within 6 days!” Cursing under his breath, Jim holds himself back for a moment to calm down. He is one hair’s breadth from imploding on pure anger. Deciding that he will never be able to subdue his tidal emotions - especially anger, for that matter- like a Vulcan otherwise would, Jim relents to a frustrated huff, “Spock, I thought we agree on splitting it 50/50.”

 

“292 reports." Spock corrects Jim's inherent mistake at the figure subconsciously, before continuing, "And, in the circumstance of your Ankara flu, you were unable to attend to your responsibilities as Captain. As your First Officer, I have thus assumed command of the ship’s duties over the duration of your medical leave. Logically, that includes the task of processing our crewmen’s psychology reviews that were the sole cause of delay on our return to Earth.”  


 

“That’s beside the point, Spock!” Jim’s eyes flares with anger as he glares at the pointy ears of his stubborn, illogical Vulcan friend. “Neglecting your health for the duties of the ship is illogical, Spock. And don’t bother denying it because I know that you know how counterproductive burning the midnight oil is. I don’t care what your workaholic ethos is preaching in that Vulcan brain of yours, but there’s nothing remotely reasonable about risking your own health.”

 

“Hardly so, Captain.” Despite Jim’s deprecating remark to the principles of Surak, Spock remains calm as ever. 

 

“Yea? No offence, Spock, but I don't see how you're gonna justify not giving shit about your health.” Raising his chin a little higher, Jim taunts Spock to what he foresees to be a confrontation like so many others that they have had in the past.   


 

"Jim, I -"

 

"Look, I've been sick outta my brains for the past week or so. That alone is bad enough a situation. The last thing we need is for our ship to be left without Captain nor her First Officer."

 

"Indeed." Spock gives the moment a sufficient pause to make a point, before continuing, "However, in my review of the psychiatric reviews, I have observed that most of the ships distinctive officers are functioning in highly stressful environment. Our return to Earth for shoreleave is, therefore, imperative in maintaining the emotional, mental and psychological well-being of the crew. Upholding crew morale is arguably the most crucial aspect in achieving and maintaining the high-efficiency productivity that is the distinctive trait in the daily functioning of the Enterprise."

 

"Good try, Spock." Jim squints at the growing furrow between Spock's upward-sweeping brows. "I refuse to accept that 'the needs of the many outweighs the needs of the few' thing you've got going on. Listen, your health is important. You’re important, okay? I mean… to the crew. To me. Too. Fuck-”

 

Spock feels compelled to confess his reciprocal feelings to Jim. He feels an unidentifiable force coiling at the base of his figurative heart, urging him to say the words he has tucked away every night and kept safe in the deepest part of his consciousness. It seems so easy to allow those words swirling at the tip of his tongue to escape the enclosure of his lips.

 

_T'hy'la -_

 

Instead, Spock finds himself saying, "My mother was very fond of Christmas."

 

"Spock… ” Jim's voice is soft, as if he is trying to lay the words gently upon Spock while being as careful as he can be.

 

"While she was neither religious nor a practitioner of Christianity, the festive seasons had always brought her joy and happiness. Throughout my childhood, she had insisted on the tradition of a family reunion dinner and the exchange of gifts. I do not see the same virtues in such celebrations. But since -" Spock clears his throat when he feels his voice giving away hints of his wavering emotions like tidal waves threatening to overcome the barriers of sea walls. He breathes, and tries again, "Since the collapse of Vulcan, my clearest remembrance of my mother is of her fondness for the holidays.

 

"Those memories that remains with me will continue to be what is left of my mother's existence, but in that way, remnants of her individuality will be preserved through my own life. Perhaps, then, it is only logical to allow those who can still embrace their loved ones around them to do so."

 

Dumbfounded by the amount of selflessness and love currently displayed by the man before him, Jim stares in awe of Spock. His breath is coming a little faster now. Jim tries to remind himself how to inhale the recycled air normally without hyperventilating like a fish out of water. He feels as if his heart might explode because, oh god, he really really wants to hug Spock so badly. Like right now. _Now, now, now -_

 

And with his trembling fingers and shivering heart, Jim does.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this chapter took so long to write. It's very emotionally draining to write about Spock's feelings towards Amanda without being too outwardly obvious about it. 
> 
> We're nearing the end of the story, guys. Let me know if you what you think of it so far!
> 
> Comments are warm hugs and kudos are kisses!!


	7. Conclusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens after Jim hugs Spock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry this took so long. I've been trying to find a good ending to this story. I hope you enjoy it!! ;u;
> 
> **strongly recommended to use a computer when reading this chapter. mobile devices may screw up the desktop-based formatting towards the end.

Jim is hugging Spock because Amanda couldn't. He wonders how Spock is feeling.

 

Granted, Vulcans don't feel.

 

But Jim is appealing to the human half in Spock to wake up and _feel_. Because this is important. Jim _needs_ Spock to feel, and know that he is important to Jim. Because it's the truth. Spock is the most important person that has ever entered Jim's orbit.

 

Spock is the counter-balance to Jim. He is the voice of logic to the impulses of Jim's heart. In fact, the tension that arises from their counteraction allows for great things to happen. Together, they form a universal equation that just... _works_.

 

Together, they prevail.

 

So Jim's arm is around Spock. His left arm wraps tightly around Spock's waist, his right arm draping across Spock's left shoulder and cupping the nape of Spock's neck. And Jim leans forward, so that his forehead is touching against Spock's. Exhaling a none-too-shaky breath, Jim allows his gaze to lock onto Spock's brown eyes that are ever so warm, so open with curiosity, with _fascination._

 

_Spock the First Officer, the half-Vulcan, the more-than friend, the brother, the -_

 

Mind racing to a halt, Jim tightens his grip around Spock. The heat radiating from the layers of Spock's science blue pulls Jim closer to the Vulcan, and Jim gives in, surrenders, nudges and shifts ever closer to Spock. He really doesn't know if he can let go at this moment.

 

In an almost identical way, Spock finds that he is unable to remove himself from the embrace of Jim. It is illogical. Yet, it is what he wants.

 

If Spock closes his eyes, he could feel Jim's consciousness teasing at the edge of his own; it probes in at every corner of his being, attempting to climb over the walls that Spock has carefully constructed in his mind. Spock could almost feel a link from his mind latching itself to Jim's receptive and dynamic mind – it's so tempting to surrender himself to the urge of conjoining their consciousness, to become one and together, forever entwined in their existences, forever melded in their minds and souls.

 

“ _Jim._ ” Spock gasps, as if burned by the scorching intensity of their embrace.

 

“Yeah.” Jim's own strangled voice isn't any better than Spock's. Then again, it's a hopeless fight for composure against the riot that is raging inside his chest.

 

_God, they are so vulnerable like this._

 

Jim traces a series of small circles into Spock's neck, as if contemplating his next move. With heavy lidded eyes, Jim thumbs absently at Spock's jawline. Gazing at the corner of Spock's bottom lip, where he rests the pad of his thumb at, Jim tries not to think of the meaning behind his actions in equivalency of Vulcan terms, given that Vulcans are pretty serious about physical contact and all that.

 

Jim watches as Spock's lips fall apart gently. If Jim had been trying to retain some control over himself, said control is no longer existent in his being. Without thinking, Jim leans in close towards Spock, so that the inches between his face and Spock's become narrowed to mere millimeters. They're so close. He's surprised Spock hasn't pulled back yet.

 

“Spock,” Jim breathes, one of his hand now clutching at the front of Spock's uniform. “I'm taking you off duty.”

 

“Captain – ” Up close, Jim can see that Spock is immediately alarmed because Spock's eyes are now looking directly at Jim's. Confronting, seeking, wanting an explanation. But Jim won't have to explain himself by words. Not yet.

 

“Hey. It's Jim.” Murmuring, Jim nudges the tip of his nose against Spock's to make his point.

 

“Jim.” Spock intones.

 

Jim watches as Spock drops his gaze from Jim's eyes to his lips. It's a strange feeling, watching someone watching you so intently. So Jim hums a half-hearted reply as he tries to focus on maintaining the microscopic distance between their lips.

 

“I do not understand why have I been placed off duty.” Spock is aware, as he speaks, that his heartbeat is accelerated by 14.03%. He is also aware of the faint tremors along his spine, a result of his conscious effort in trying to stay as still as possible. In his futile attempt to regain his composure, Spock focus intently on an incompletely-healed razor burn on Jim's chin.

 

“You've been pulling all-nighters for too long. You're overworked.” It _is_ very hard to keep still when every fibre of your being is screaming, trying to surge forward to _kiss_ him. Instead, Jim says, quite plainly, “You need sleep.”

 

“Unnecessary. Vulcans require less sleep than human.” The puff of air Spock exhales brings a certain damp warmth to Jim's face.

 

“Yeah?” Jim lifts his chin up a little, once again, in mock defiance and challenge to Spock.

 

Spock knows. He knows if he were to mirror Jim's movement, their lips would touch.

 

And when he replies, his voice is careful and diminished.

 

“Yes.”

 

And then Jim pressed his lips against Spock's.

 

It is gentle. And simple. It is a warm and soft touch, a brief connection.

 

When Jim pulls back, he made sure he does so that their lips would make a soft smacking sound. “Now you're off duty. Because you have Ankaran flu.”

 

A heartbeat.

 

This time, Spock presses his lips against Jim's.

 

And again. And again, and again, and again. And again.

 

It is deep. And warm. It is an insistent seek, a hopeless plea for more.

 

When Spock pulls back, he is a little more breathless than Jim. But he says, “Ankaran Flu has no effect on Vulcan biology.”

 

And Jim chuckles low at that.

 

“I'm still taking you off duty.” He pulls Spock in by the hem of his uniform – which had to be a little ruffled by now – so that he kisses him proper.

 

A soft olive hue is creeping up the pointy tips of Spock's ears, and he replies, still a little dazed from the kiss, “I do not object.”

 

The thing is, Jim has kissed, and been kissed by many. He is a good kisser. But the way Spock kisses, as if he is falling, as if in the next moment, he will lose all that he had ever hoped for, as if this kiss is the only breath of life that gives him life - Jim is helpless against that. When Jim is kissed by Spock, he feels like he is flying. Jim feels like his entire brain has had a massive white out and is being blown apart through the warm tongue sliding hot against his own, brutalizing and tantalizing. And when Spock clutches tight at Jim's neck, keeping his mouth in place, Jim can only hold on and _be kissed_.

 

Eventually, both of them had to breathe. Bones would really not be impressed by the double cases of suffocation and hyperventilation – simultaneously, too.

 

Jim cradles Spock's head close to him and presses their forehead together, if not a little breathlessly, and says without thinking, “Come to shoreleave with me.”

 

Spock tightens his hold around Jim's waist. And pressing a soft kiss on Jim's forehead, Spock replies, “I do not object.”

 

 

**∞**

 

And now, Jim sits in his quarters with a PADD in his lap, he smiles as he types the following in the text box of his private comm. to Spock:  
  
  


>>spock look

>>" The Extent of The Three ‘A’s on Commander Spock" By Captain James T. Kirk

  *        annoying?

* * *

not at all         ~~sometimes~~         yes           very



 

  *        affectionate?

* * *

  *          not at all         sometimes         yes           very                                           ~~(im gonna tick here)~~



 

  *        adorable? (trust me. spock you're so lovable) 

* * *

  *          not at all         sometimes         yes           very                                            ~~(im gonna tick here)~~



>>amirite

 

>>Jim. That is hardly scientific.

 

>> yea i know.

>>spock do this

  * does spock love jim??

* * *

  *       yes        /        no 



>>remember u still haven't done ur monthly health inspection

>>answer correctly or i'll tell bones

 

... 

 

Jim sees Spock typing. 

 

... 

 

>> Jim. I do not see the purpose in this. But nonetheless:

  * Is S'chn T'gai Spock in love with James T. Kirk?

* * *

  *  yes        /        no                                                                                               ~~(I believe I shall tick here.)~~



 

>>omg

>>i might cry spock

 

"No tears are needed, Jim." Spock says as he emerges through their shared bathroom, the PADD in one hand and his traveling bag in the other. Resting the bag on Jim's study desk, Spock walks over to the bed, in the middle of which sits Jim.

 

"I am in love with thee, t'hy'la." 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh goshhhhh h.
> 
> Here we are. The end. Finally.
> 
> Thank you for reading, liking and commenting!!! I hope you liked the story and please, if you can, let me know how you think of it!!
> 
> I can't stress this enough. Comments are warm hugs! And kudos are kisses!!


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